


Supersedure

by poisontaster



Category: Stargate: Atlantis
Genre: Gen, none. - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-23
Updated: 2008-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:34:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23765440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: Where most Wraiths are made, Queens are born.
Kudos: 3





	Supersedure

**Author's Note:**

> Original Notes: Written for __marcelo in the 2008 Catchallthon. Hir request was: A Stargate:Atlantis story from the POV of a Wraith (bonus points if no people from Earth is involved, extra bonus points if no people from Earth is mentioned or relevant to the plot). I hope this is up to expectation. Supersedure is the process by which an old queen bee is replaced by a new queen.

Where most Wraith are made, queens are born.

It is the last act of a dying queen, the spawning of her successor. The new queen comes from between the dying one's thighs squalling and bloody mouthed, for queens must know the taste of flesh right from the start.

The raising of a new queen is the most dangerous time for a hive, and the most important, for although the voices of the Line of Mothers is present and whispering in the new queen's mind, she is as yet too young to understand what they say to her and too weak to muster the strength necessary to lead the hive. For the survival of the hive, she must be guarded carefully and given time to grow.

At these times, the hive will push out to the outer realms, where food is scarce. It is a test of the hive, the raising of a queen; the drones must be strong enough, disciplined enough to suffer through the privation of little food, the chancellors watched carefully for the poor wisdom that comes with boredom.

_~Oral Histories of the Wraith_

*

The making of the royal jelly is a secret known to only a few. Those few are born tongueless and blind. The knowledge, the language, of the making is separate than that of the collective, a song that only the short-lived makers can hear.

A chancellor once—unwisely—compared the stream of this knowledge to the voices of the Line of Mothers. He lived only long enough to regret ever speaking.

Deep in the heart of the ship, where the blood flows thickest and the song is the strongest, the Maker, the keeper of the secret can only hope that his death will be as fast.

*

Her blunt child-teeth are starting to fall out but the sharp-edged serrated teeth that will replace them have—mostly—yet to come in, leaving strange gaps and warm tendernesses. She tongues the empty spaces, red and swollen, sometimes a little bloody as the new teeth slice through the gum. She hisses her displeasure through them and lets it cool the ache.

There is much to displease her right now, the clamor in her head loud and inescapable, her own control weak and mushy, slow to respond. She despises her own weakness and she despises the puling weakness of everyone around her.

It wasn't always like this. In the beginning, the Consort spun fantastical tales of what her life would be like, as queen. The untold hordes of food that would kneel at her feet, begging for the privilege of the touch of her hand, the subjugation of other hives, the bones of their queens incorporated into her throne, the banks of children created from her pure, untainted genetic material spawning outward across the stars at her wishes, her command.

But years have gone by and none of the Consort's many promises have materialized. They travel in the same tediously boring circles in the same tediously, boringly empty stretches of space. She eats the same boring meals of soft, bland jelly, too young to feed properly—not that there's a speck of decent food to be found in these sterile deserts of space. And though she _is_ their queen and the Mother in Flesh and Spirit to every creature here—including the ship that houses them—no one listens to her. No one pays attention to her. She is kept in this room like…like a _child_ and only trotted out for ceremonial occasions, to make an appearance for the underlings.

It's not _fair._

She can feel her body changing. She's grown taller, stronger—not that anyone seems to have noticed. Though the voices of the Mothers Before Her have always been with her, they have grown stronger, surer, whispering to her that her time is upon her. She can feel it in the tight-knit buds of her breasts and the dull, aching throb in her groin. She can feel it in the itch and cramping pains of her arms and hands, the skin of her palms changing, becoming both tough and tender.

She can feel it.

The Maker comes with her meal. The bloody, mealy smell of it catches at her stomach, half in hunger, half in nausea. Her hands writhe restlessly at her sides. The Maker's obsequiousness is annoying, bowing and scraping his way into the room without pride. If she's Queen, she doesn't understand why she has to be waited on by such a pathetic creature.

"I do not want it." She turns her back on him, letting her displeasure radiate from her very posture. She particularly likes this move because, mute, the Maker cannot even argue with her turned back. Not that he would dare do any such thing.

Holding her wrist with one hand, she flexes her palm, feeling the hunger eat at her. The Maker's anxiety bleeds through the collective, a shrill, buzzing whine that makes her want to swat it.

 _"I don't want it,"_ she says again as it crawls to her, pushing the bowl before it.

"But you must eat." The melodious voice behind her is unexpected, verging on unfamiliar.

Whirling around, she recognizes the one behind her as one of the chancellors, but she doesn't know him. They're not allowed here. Only the Consort and the Maker are allowed here. Her heartbeat quickens, tongue racing across the points of her new teeth and the flats of her old.

"Why must I?" she demands and her voice only wavers a little.

"You are our queen," the chancellor replies smoothly, dipping into a bow. "Your health is of paramount importance. Your health is the health of the hive."

There is another current in the collective, something dark and oily, mushy and soft, corrupt. She runs it across her tongue, tasting it like the blood pooled in her gums. On its knees next to the chancellor, the Maker offers her the bowl again, head bent.

She looks at the jelly within. It looks the same as it always has, smells the same.

She doesn't want it.

"No," she says. She aches. Her body, her head, the awareness of everyone—the living and the dead—pressing in on her.

The chancellor snatches the dish from the Maker, bowling it out of the way. He shoves the jelly at her. "Eat."

The chancellor still towers over her—looms, really—teeth showing between his peeled back lips.

"No."

The chancellor grabs her by the jaw, the clawed tips digging into her cheeks. _"You will eat."_

"Fine. I will." Her hand slams palm-first into his chest, feeding almost before she contacts skin. It _hurts_ , half-formed receptors ripping wide open, radiating agony up her arm and into her body along with an influx of energy—raw, unfiltered, and _so incredibly rich_ …

It goes straight to her head, dwarfing the pain, burning through it in shocking jolts of absolute well-being.

 _"Kneel."_ The word erupts from the deepest part of her, feeling like it reverberates from the bones of the ship itself, from the stars and planet and with the same inevitability. The chancellor fights her all the way down, but he buckles. She rides him down, draining him the whole way.

It is… _intoxicating._

She doesn't know why she hasn't been doing this all along.

*

"As you were wise to suspect, my queen, the royal jelly had been poisoned. We do not know how the chancellor was able to corrupt the Maker and now, regretfully…" The Consort's booted toe jostles the withered husk at his feet, "we will likely never know. Nor am I sure how the chancellor gained entrance to your chamber, but you have now proven to the entire hive that you are Queen-in-Truth as well as Queen-in-Name."

Living in a collective doesn't mean there are no secrets among them. Even so, she suspects she knows how the chancellor got in. In memories that are not those of her lifetime, she remembers the Consort and the dead chancellor feinting and maneuvering against each other for power—weak, male power. She can feel/hear his glissandos of satisfaction, ringing off her bones.

And she understands. If she'd ingested the poisoned jelly, as Consort, he would have led the hive. Their genetic legacy would've been cut off, but in these times, this would not be the only hive without a queen. And by feeding on the chancellor and Maker instead, she's proven that not only does she have the strength to lead, but that she's now strong enough to take her role, strengthening his power, as the Consort. No matter who came out on top, the Consort wins.

…or so he thinks.

She's getting hungry again.


End file.
